Cold Revolution
by jellybeansprout
Summary: He was changing. A revolution was coming. He could feel it.


I have a new love! RusAme!

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><p><strong>Cold Revolution<strong> by _tastygiblet_

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><p>He was changing.<p>

A revolution was coming. He could feel it.

This wasn't a war, it was a change.

Unhappy with their current status of government, the people wanted change. Too much money was being wasted. Too many frivolous heads of state.

Another power was rising within him.

America wasn't sure he liked it.

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><p>America was certain that he didn't like these changes.<p>

Discontent was building within the people. They were so unhappy.

More than that, a dark rash had broken out on his skin. He hid it well, but it frightened him. Something was twisting inside him.

There was another man, using America's system to get what he wanted. He was smiles and sunshine for the people, presenting a strong and confident front for them. He demanded that changes be made, and said he was the man to make it happen.

When he made his bid for the presidency, the people were all to happy to comply.

Alfred hated it.

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><p>The rash had become worse, turning a deep shade of black. It didn't rot or fester, but spread like a parasitic fungus beneath his skin.<p>

It felt horrible and it was all he could do to keep from scratching until he bled.

The people's will was a coil of fear and fury, fed by the bad man's words.

That was what Alfred called him in his thoughts: the bad man.

He most certainly was a bad man, but not yet a villain.

Alfred looked at his arm, at the spreading rash, and frowned.

Maybe... maybe he needed help.

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><p>The bad man had locked out his allies.<p>

America was forbidden from contact with them. Fearful of the change in foreign policy and the new harsh standards, he had been turned away at Canada's border, and closed from England's ports.

Neither country hazarded communication with him. The bad man had made his strict policies clear. Breaking even one of them risked military retaliation.

Not even his phone calls were picked up. Shocked at the sheer insanity of it all, he had no recourse but to try to solve it on his own.

Absentmindedly, Alfred scratched his arm.

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><p>Desperation set in when the rash crawled across his chest. When it reached his neck, Alfred screamed.<p>

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><p>The isolationism was hurting him. No one to talk to, no one to call. No one to see. Alfred sat alone in his house and rocked himself on his bed in the darkness.<p>

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><p>America felt sick.<p>

Constant nausea warded off any appetite. His skin had turned a sickly pallor. Dark bruises ringed his eyes. He lost weight.

And still that black rash spread.

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><p>Covered head to toe in heavy winter wear, America stood at the door to Russia's house.<p>

If allies refused him, then he really had no other choice.

America knocked softly on the door.

A few moments later, the door swung open, and Russia smiled pleasantly at him in greeting.

"I need a favor." America whispered.

Russia's smile widened.

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><p>America was taken inside, placed onto the couch and sat before a fire. Carefully, layers of clothing were unwound from his body. Russia kept stripping the layers, even as he reached the thin shirt beneath. Steady hands slid that off too.<p>

America sat silent and unresponsive as the black rash was revealed, inch by slow inch.

There was no hiding the sickness anymore.

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><p>For once, there was sheer terror on the young nation's face.<p>

He gripped Russia's sleeve with mad strength. "I'll change! I'll change!" America cried desperately. "I don't want to, but I'll have no choice! He's my boss!" Blue eyes, opened so widely, tears a shiny, near luminescent layer.

Russia suppressed the shiver that raced through him.

This anxious and broken America was so tempting. He remembered times when his only thought was how to crush the youthful country.

Yet another part of him pitied the blond nation. Their intense rivalry had become old enough that their respective peoples had forgotten, and so their grudges had weakened. Their personal distaste for each other lingered, but the will of the people could be fickle.

Within him dwelled sympathy, if only a shred.

Would he do a favor for America?

"I don't want to change." The words were whispered so quietly from a bowed head, hands still clutching Russia's coat.

America did cry so prettily.

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><p>A few days later, the world was rocked by news of the assassination of the American president.<p>

The country was in turmoil. Nations were in an uproar by the shocking incident. With the threat of the strict foreign policy gone, China, France, England, and Canada sent in their investigators, all clamoring to discover what had happened.

Russia watched the television with a wry smile as the news was announced. He tilted his head to see the young America curled up at his side. How small he looked now. Not diminished, but more fragile.

Malleable.

Laying a hand almost affectionately on the blond nation's head, he smiled.

Now, America owed him, and what a wonderful gift that would be.

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><p><em>end<em>

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><p>My preference is for fluff, but this came out instead. Gah. Happy Friday 13th!<p> 


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